At Midnight Maybe
We park on the night side
of a heather-fuzzed hill skull ease out of the car.
Ensconced in plaid blankets
we huddle against the windshield
draw modest warmth
from the click-shrinking engine.
Proprietary wind scrubs plateau
and sky to flat black.
City on other side
of fjord glows a vague pink that
does not affect the sky.
We count moth holes in
charcoal wool of sky
meet star gaze eye to eye
wish they’d blink shut,
they don’t give us any frisson.
We yearn for electric
green, violet, white at times
— atomic particles slamming into
one another —
to ripple, fill our retinas with awe and
flare out in billowy curtains.
Will we taste tang or silk hear
sizzling or crackling?
Wind shakes the car. Our
nose and lips tingle from
We shiver, adjust blankets sip
Waiting is early pleasure, we
its own reward, we entreat. Our
bodies’ resolve weakens under the
Our minds though cling to plan.
We are committed
to risk hours of blank sky not on
but on a chance.
We surrender to waiting for its
own sake waiting, our only way.
If you enjoyed this piece by Marie-Andree Auclair
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